SWALWELL HOPPING.
By J.S. of Gateshead.
Tune—“Paddy’s Wedding.”
Lads! myek a ring,
An’ hear huz sing
The sport we had at Swalwell-o;
Wour merry play,
O’ th’ Hoppen day?
Howay! marrows, an’ aw’ll tell you-o.
The sun shines warm on Whickham bank,
Let’s aw lye down at Dolly’s-o,
An’ hear ’bout mony a funny prank
Play’d by the lads at Crowley’s-o.
There was Sam, O zoons!
Wiv’s pantaloons,
An’ gravat up owre his gobby-o;
An’ Willy, thou,
Wi’ th’ jacket blue,
Thou was the varra Bobby-o:
There was knack knee’d Mat, wiv’s purple suit,
An’ hopper-a—s’d Dick, a’ yellow-o:
Great Tom was there wi’ H—ple’s awd coat,
An’ bucksheen’d Bob fra Stella-o.
When we wour drest,
It was confest,
We shemm’d the cheps fra Newcassel-o:
So away we set
To wour town gyet,
To jeer them a’ as they pass’d us-o;
We shouted some, and some dung down—
Lobstrop’lus fellows, we kick’d them-o:
Some culls went hyem, some crush’d to town,
Some gat about by Whickham-o.
The spree com on—
The hat was won
By carrot-pow’d Jenny’s Jacky-o:
What a fyess, begok!
Had buckle-mouth’d Jock,
When he twin’d his jaws for the backy-o!
The kilted lasses fell tid pell mell,
Wi’—Tally-i-o the grinder-o—
The smock was gi’en to slavering Nell;
Ye’d dropp’d had ye been behind her-o.
Wour dance began,
Awd buck-tyuth’d Nan,
An’, Geordy, thou’d Jen Collin-o:
While the merry black,
Wi’ monny a crack,
Set the tamborine a rolling-o.
Like wour forge hammer we bet se true,
An shuk Raw’s house se soundly-o:
Tuff canna cum up wi’ Crowley’s crew,
Nor thump the tune se roundly-o.
Then Gyetside Jack,
Wiv’s bloody back,
Wad dance wi’ goggle-ey’d Mally-o;
But up cam Nick,
An’ gav him a kick,
An’ a canny bit kind of a fally-o:
That day a’ Hawk’s blacks may rue,—
They gat monny a verra sair clanker-o;
Can they de ouse wi’ Crowley’s crew,
Frev a needle tiv a anchor-o?
What’s that to say
To the bonny fray
We had wi’ skipper Robin-o:
The keel bullies a’,
Byeth great and sma’,
Myed a bu——ly tide o’ the Hoppen-o.
Gleed Will cry’d, Ma-a! up lup awd Frank,
An’ Robin that marry’d his dowter-o:
We hammer’d their ribs like a anchor shark
They fand it six weeks after-o.
Bald pyet Jone Carr
Wad hev a bit spar,
To help his marrows away wid-o:
But poor awd fellow,
He’d getten ower mellow,
So we down’d byeth him and Davy-o:
Then Petticoat Robin jumpt up agyen,
Wiv’s gully to mercykree huz a’,
But Willanton Dan laid him flat wiv a styen:
Hurro! for Crowley’s crew, boys a’!
Their hash was sattled,
So off we rattled,
An’ jigg’d it up se hearty-o?
Wi’ monny a shiver,
An’ lowp se clever,
Can Newcassel turn out sec a party-o?
When, wheit dyun ower, the fidlers went,
We stagger’d a hint see merry-o:
An’ thro’ wour town, till fairly spent,
Roar’d—Crowley’s Crew an’ Glory-o!